The Prettiest One: A Thriller (36 page)

“They’re telling you the truth,” Caitlin said. “I can’t remember the other night. I can’t remember anything from the last seven months.”

“What, we’re in a soap opera? You expect me to believe that bullshit?”

Caitlin shrugged. “I can’t make you believe it, but it’s the truth. Just out of curiosity, though, what is it you think I saw?”

Bix couldn’t believe the balls on this girl. If the situation weren’t so serious, he would have laughed at her brazenness. One-Eye looked as though he had no clue how to handle her.

“Why do you keep asking me that?” he said.

“Because I don’t remember what happened at the warehouse and I . . . need to remember. Did I . . . kill someone there?”

The blond man blinked a few times. “Did you—?”

“Did you see me kill someone?”

One-Eye shook his head. “Is she for real?” he asked, looking at Bix.

Bix nodded. “We’re telling you, she doesn’t remember a thing from that night.”

The man scratched his head with his free hand, frowning. It looked to Bix like a debate was raging inside that blond head. Finally, he said, “I can’t take the chance. I can’t go back to prison. Besides, this sounds like total bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Bix said.

The guy frowned for another few seconds, then shook his head emphatically. “I can’t do it. I can’t believe you. I’d like to, but I can’t. I can’t go back to prison. No way.”

To Bix, it sounded as though the man’s voice had cycled from cocky to unsure to frightened. Bix wondered if it was time to make his move. He might be shot, but he was probably going to be shot anyway. Taking a run at the guy might be their only chance.

“I can’t go back,” One-Eye said. “Not after what they did to me there.”

“She’s telling you the truth,” Josh said.

The man shook his head again. “I won’t go back. I won’t. I won’t let them take my other eye. I’d rather die.”

“Your other eye?” Caitlin said.

When she spoke, the man stopped shaking his head and glared at her for a moment. Then he lifted the eye patch, exposing lids that had been sewn together. The skin was unnaturally flat. The eyeball was gone completely, leaving behind an empty socket covered by taut skin.

“They took it out with a spoon,” he said. “I’m never going back to prison.” He let the patch fall back into place and shook his head, sadly this time, it seemed. “I think I have to kill you all. I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I just can’t take the chance. Besides, that amnesia story sounds like bullshit.”

“I killed someone,” Caitlin said abruptly.

He narrowed his eye. “A second ago you were asking me if you did. And what, you suddenly remembered?”

“Not him. I killed somebody else.”

He chuckled. “Right. Okay, who’d you kill?”

“Michael Bookerman,” Caitlin said. “I shot him to death at his house.”

“Who’s Michael Bookerman?”

“You probably know him as Michael Maggert.”

If Caitlin had wanted to convince One-Eye not to shoot them, Bix doubted the wisdom of admitting that she had killed his bald buddy. But the guy said, “Yeah? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Caitlin said.

After a moment of thought, One-Eye said, “I never liked him.”

“I thought you two were pals,” Bix said.

One-Eye said, “We hung out some, did a few jobs, but he was an asshole. Always pushed me to take jobs I didn’t want to take. Made me do things I didn’t want to do. He’s the reason this happened,” he said, pointing to his eye. “I never should have been caught. We never should have pulled that job. But Mike pushed me. Then I took the fall for it. Cost me my eye and three years of my life. It was his fault.”

“I killed him,” Caitlin repeated. “I shot him. Twice, I think. First in the shoulder, then in the stomach. Left him dead on his living room floor.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So that you know. It’s a confession. You have a cell phone on you? One with a voice recorder? I’ll confess again. Then you’ll have that over me, and I wouldn’t be able to go to the cops even if I wanted to.”

Not bad,
Bix thought, especially considering that she was planning to go to the cops anyway, so a confession wouldn’t matter. The man looked lost in thought as he chewed on that for a bit. Bix again considered making a move but decided to hold off a little longer. Quietly, almost to himself, One-Eye said, “I never liked him. I don’t really want to kill you. I’d like to trust you. I won’t go back to prison, though.” Finally, he looked up at them. “You really killed Mike?”

Caitlin said, “I did. You don’t believe me, go to his house. He’s still there. We just left him.”

“I thought you killed him two nights ago.”

“I did. We went back.”

“Why?”

Caitlin shrugged. “Looking for answers. Like I said, I don’t remember doing it.”

The man reached up, slipped a finger under his eye patch, and scratched. Bix felt himself grimacing as he watched. “And he’s still there?” the man said. “The cops haven’t found him?”

“Not as of forty-five minutes ago.”

“What about the money?”

“What money?” Caitlin asked.

“You know what money. You saw it at the warehouse.”

Caitlin shook her head. “You’re forgetting—I don’t remember that night. And we didn’t see any money at Bookerman’s house, though we weren’t looking for anything like that, so maybe it’s there.”

After what seemed like another minute or two of internal debate, One-Eye pulled a cell phone from his pocket, fiddled around with it, then turned it toward them. He looked almost relieved as he did it. Apparently, he was telling the truth about not wanting to kill them.

“I’m taking a video of this,” he said. “Just in case. So tell me again for the record.”

Caitlin stated her name, her real name, and for the record confessed to shooting Michael Maggert, whose real name was Bookerman. She said she shot him twice, killing him. She provided his address and added whatever detail she could recall, such as the room where he died and the position of his body. For motive, Caitlin said that he had been stalking her, which seemed to come as a mild surprise to One-Eye. Apparently, Bookerman and his one-eyed buddy weren’t as close as Bix and the others had thought, as Bookerman had never shared his pet project with his friend, nor had he invited him into his spare bedroom where Caitlin’s photo was pinned to a corkboard. Caitlin wrapped up her confession, and Bix had no idea if it would ever be heard in court, but he knew it would be enough to cause Caitlin serious trouble if it were. The man gave a satisfied nod and pocketed his phone.

“Okay, then, that’s it,” he said as he started for the door. Halfway there, he paused. “And you really don’t remember the other night?”

“I really don’t,” Caitlin said. “Any chance you’d tell me what happened? I really want to know.”

One-Eye just laughed. Then he was gone. Bix stepped over and closed the door behind him, locking it. He turned back to Caitlin, wondering how she was holding up. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I need a beer.”

Following a bartender’s direction, Hunnsaker found Jane Stillwood in stiletto heels and a red corset with matching panties, serving beers to a table of rambunctious businessmen in starched white shirts that were open at the collar, their ties hanging loosely. Hunnsaker thought Stillwood was attractive, but the men had eyes only for the topless woman in a shiny gold G-string squatting on the low stage in front of them, her knees spread, her boobs jiggling for dollar bills.

Drinks delivered, Stillwood headed back toward the bar with her empty serving tray, and Hunnsaker caught her attention. For the waitress’s sake, Hunnsaker didn’t want to show her detective shield, if she could avoid it, and draw unnecessary attention to the woman. Managers in places like this had enough trouble with the law; they might not take kindly to an employee who led a cop to their door.

“Jane Stillwood?” Hunnsaker said. “My name is Detective Charlotte Hunnsaker. I left you a few messages.”

Stillwood tried to look confused, but she made her attempt a fraction of a second too late, and Hunnsaker saw something in her eyes that told her that Stillwood had listened to but chosen to ignore Hunnsaker’s messages.

“What’s this about?” Stillwood asked, looking around nervously.

Hunnsaker walked to a relatively quiet corner and took a seat at a tiny table. Stillwood followed but balked at sitting down.

“This won’t take long. You know this woman?” Hunnsaker showed her the picture on her phone of Caitlin Sommers, the one that had been tweaked to give her short red hair.

Stillwood frowned and pretended to be thinking. She was a terrible actress.

“I don’t think I do,” Stillwood said.

“It wasn’t really a question, Janie. You know this woman. I know you do. I’ve spoken with just about everyone you know, and they all told me that you do. They said you two are pretty close, in fact.”

Stillwood didn’t respond, which was probably smart. Hunnsaker changed the photograph on her phone to the undoctored one from months ago, before Sommers disappeared, when she had her shoulder-length blonde hair.

“How about this woman? You know her?”

This time, Stillwood’s confused look was convincing. “Who’s she? She looks like . . .”

“Yeah,” Hunnsaker said. “Same woman. This woman with the blonde hair is named Caitlin Sommers. She disappeared without a trace seven months ago. This,” she said as she switched back to the photo of Sommers as a redhead, “is the same woman. You know anything about that?”

Stillwood shook her head slowly, looking befuddled. Hunnsaker believed that she didn’t know anything about the identity change. She didn’t know Caitlin Sommers the blonde. But she sure as hell knew Katherine Southern, the redhead.

“Something strange is going on here,” Hunnsaker said. “I don’t know what it is, but I need to know where to find this woman. And I know you can tell me. So tell me.”

Stillwood stared at the picture of her friend, probably a bit shocked to learn how little she really knew her.

“You seem reluctant to help me, Janie,” Hunnsaker said. “Look, I get it. You two are besties, probably get together to paint each other’s toenails, drink wine coolers, and talk about boys, but I think you can see now that you don’t really know this woman. She was never honest with you. So how much can you possibly owe her?”

Stillwood looked up from the phone.

Hunnsaker said, “And if you two aren’t quite as tight as you thought you were, is she really worth facing obstruction charges, maybe aiding and abetting?”

Stillwood’s eyes widened just a bit. That struck home. Finally, she spoke. “I think she might be in trouble.”

“Really? You think?”

“I don’t want Katie to get hurt or anything.”

“I know you don’t. And you’re right. She’s in trouble. So tell me how to find her so I can keep her from doing something stupid, something that might get her hurt or worse. Where does she live?”

Stillwood shook her head. “I don’t actually know where she lives.”

“Janie . . .”

“No, it’s true,” she added quickly. “I’ve only been there once, maybe twice. And Katie always drove. I never paid attention to the turns we took or to the street names.”

“You’re telling me that even though everyone I spoke with told me that you and Katherine Southern, as you’ve known her, are pals, you don’t even know where she lives?”

Stillwood looked confused again, and now it was starting to piss off Hunnsaker. Before she could voice her displeasure, though, Stillwood said, “You mean Southard.”

“What?”

“You said Katherine Southern. You mean Southard, don’t you?”

Hunnsaker still had her phone in her hand. She flipped back past the two photos of Caitlin/Katherine, to the list of employees who worked at Commando’s. Even though there was a line through Katherine’s name, Hunnsaker could read the last name clearly. Southern.

“Her name is Southard?” she asked Stillwood, who nodded. “And you’re sure about that?” Stillwood nodded again.

Hunnsaker left the Sugar Factory in a hurry. If Caitlin Sommers had been going by Katherine Southard lately—and not Katherine Southern, as they had thought—perhaps another records search would be more fruitful than their last one. She dialed Padilla’s number.

“Got yet another name for our redhead, Javy, and I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

MIKE MAGGERT WAS DEAD AND Martin Donnello was okay with that. Or maybe his name was Bookerman, or whatever the redhead had said it was. Either way, according to her, she had shot him two nights ago, after the warehouse, which made sense because Donnello hadn’t been able to reach Mike since then. Donnello had looked for the redhead and assumed Mike had been doing the same, but he hadn’t been sure because the guy wasn’t answering his damn phone. Now Donnello knew why.

He and Mike had made some money together over the years, but they’d lost some, too. They’d had a few good times, but plenty of bad ones, ones that were far worse for Donnello than for Mike. So, yeah, all in all, Donnello was all right with Mike’s death. An eye for an eye, as they say, right?

But given that the two of them had been involved together in plenty of things over the years that Donnello wouldn’t want the cops to know about, he thought it would be wise to get to Mike’s house before the cops found out about his murder and tore the place apart. Who knew what the guy had lying around the house that could tie Donnello to illegal activities? Besides, Mike had left the warehouse with five thousand bucks, which they had planned to use to pay for the stolen smartphones that had turned out to be a bag of fake hands instead—which was what had led to the storm of shit that started at the warehouse and apparently ended when the redhead killed Mike at his place. Presumably, the money was still at Mike’s, if the girl wasn’t lying when she said they hadn’t taken it, so Donnello figured he might as well retrieve it while he was there.